


The Kids Don't Stand A Chance

by therecognitionscene



Category: Long Exposure (Webcomic)
Genre: 1950's AU, Greaser AU, M/M, Period-Typical Homophobia
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-25
Updated: 2017-04-29
Packaged: 2018-10-23 18:24:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,512
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10724736
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/therecognitionscene/pseuds/therecognitionscene
Summary: 1956. Jonas Wagner's senior year of high school, the year that he has all planned out, the year that's going to lead him to Berkeley and his future. Nothing can throw him off his course, nothing.Nothing, except a tall, mean, angry boy with slicked back hair and bruised knuckles, a boy who spends too much time staring at him, a boy who Jonas knows he should stay far, far away from.A boy that Jonas can't help but be drawn to.





	1. September, Part One

**Author's Note:**

> the 1950's greaser AU that no one needed me to write
> 
> im trash and have never finished a multi-chapter fic before in my life. but im gonna try real hard with this one, mostly becuse i hate myself. prayer circle for me. (shout out to thebermuda for helping beta this, ur my rock <3)
> 
> Long Exposure and all its content belongs to smokeplanet.

September 4th, 1956. His last first-day-of-high school. 

Jonas is struck by how surreal that thought is as he walks to school with Sidney and their friends, the morning sun already shining down bright and hot on them as they talk and laugh, rehashing their favorite adventures from their long summer break. It seems like just yesterday that he and Sidney had first walked into their seventh-grade classroom and awkwardly introduced themselves to their new classmates, and now in little more than nine months he’s going to be graduating from Sellwood High and--hopefully-- starting his undergraduate studies at UC Berkeley. 

_ Berkeley _ . His dream school, the college he’s been fantasizing about attending since he and his twin had made the shift from homeschooling to public schooling. Now that he’s nearing graduation, the possibility of actually getting accepted to Berkeley seems very real and attainable. All he has to do is maintain his grades for one more year, keep saving money from his small part-time job at the local grocer’s, and stay focused on what he wants and why he wants it.

Finally he’s going to have the chance to get away from the pettiness of his hometown. Finally he’ll get to be around people who are open-minded, people who see beyond a person’s outward appearance or quirks to what's inside. Despite being a fairly sizeable city, he and Sidney have always received sideways glances and thinly-veiled insults because of their brown skin. The fact that Dean is the chief of police in Sellwood keeps most of the blatantly racially charged hatred at bay, but he and Sidney have been acutely aware of their differences ever since they can remember. Berkeley serves as a bastion of liberalism to Jonas, a beacon of glowing acceptance that he’s drawn to like a moth, and the fact that he could actually be  _ going  _ there within a year is mind-boggling. 

His only regret is that Sidney isn’t interested in Berkeley in the slightest: they’ve been inseparable since their birth, practically joined at the hip, but she has her sights set further south, on UCLA. The potential separation has been weighing heavily on the twins all summer, casting a long shadow over their idyllic golden days. They’ve been clinging tighter to one another as a result, both of them avoiding the topic of college when in each other’s presence, but it looms in the backs of their minds nonetheless, an exciting, terrifying, unknown adventure that’s going to come whether they’re ready for it or not.

“--and my friend’s cousin said he saw him back at the trailer park, and that he’s covered in tattoos that he got when he was in  _ prison _ for  _ killing _ a guy!”

Madison gasps beside Jonas and glances sideways at him, both her and Lewis waiting for a reaction from the freckled teenager. When Jonas doesn’t respond, too caught up in his own thoughts, Lewis clears his throat and tries again. “Yeah, my cousin said he went batty and stabbed a fella _twenty_ _times_ over some beer! And there’s rumors floating around that he’s involved with a gang, that _Los Tiburones_ group from Santa Rosa.”

Madison frowns when Jonas still doesn’t react and jabs her bony elbow into his side. Jonas blinks his soft brown eyes, shifting his gaze between his two friends. “Oh, uh, sorry, what was that, Lewis? Were you talking to me?”

Madison sighs dramatically and rolls her eyes. “Lewis was  _ saying _ , Jonas, that Mitch Mueller is back in Sellwood! That he’s enrolled back in school and he’s going to be in our grade again!”

Lewis nods emphatically, pushing at the bridge of his glasses when they start to slide down his nose. “It’s true. My cousin said--”

Sidney lets out a snort, rolling her eyes at Lewis and Madison. “Lews, is this the same cousin who claims he saw Bigfoot stealing an Elvis vinyl from Mr. Redmond’s store? I wouldn’t put a lotta faith in what he has to say.” Lewis’ cheeks darken a shade and he falls silent as Sidney continues, tugging at the collar of her blouse. “Besides, so what if Mitch is back? It’s not like he’s going to remember Jonas. He bullied a lot of kids back then, and anyways, it’s been four years. Who holds a crazy grudge like that? Stop trying to freak Joey out.”

“Well, I still think Jonas should be careful,” Madison huffs, sweeping her long brown hair back over her shoulder imperiously. “If Mitch  _ is _ back, you’d rather be safe than sorry, right Jonas? He’s nothing but trouble!” She looks over at him eagerly, seeking his approval.

Jonas shrugs, rubbing at the back of his neck. “Yeah, uh, you’re right, Mads. I’ll keep a look out. Just in case.”

She nods, satisfied, and turns her attention back to Sidney. “Ugh, did you even iron that blouse? It’s  _ covered _ in wrinkles. And you’ve got stains on your skirt!”

Jonas tunes back out as Sidney and Madison start arguing about Sid’s appearance. It’s a bit stupid, he thinks; Sidney looks just fine the way she is, but Madison has always griped about how ‘unkempt’ and ‘slovenly’ his twin lets herself become. As they peck back and forth at each other Lewis bumps his shoulder gently against Jonas’, looking sheepish and thoroughly chagrined. “Sorry, Joey,” he murmurs, keeping his gaze trained down towards the sidewalk. “I wasn’t trying to make you jumpy or anything, I just… Thought I should warn you.”

Jonas manages a smile and bumps Lewis back. “It’s ok, Lews, don’t worry about it. Your cousin probably just heard wrong. There’s no way he’d be allowed back into school.” But, as sure as Jonas makes himself sound, his stomach is in knots. 

Mitch Mueller. The person responsible for making his junior high years a living hell. Every day when the final bell rang, Mitch and his delinquent friends would be waiting outside the front doors of the school, waiting for Jonas to try and sneak out so they could steal his leftover pocket money and upend the contents of his messenger bag onto the ground, calling him names and pushing him from one set of mean hands to another, like a pinball. Each morning Mitch would walk by Jonas’ locker and knock the books from his grasp, shoot spitballs at the back of his head in math class, steal his milk at lunch just to dump it out on the floor.

As they got older Mitch got meaner. Tactics shifted from mostly harmless, albeit embarrassing and frustrating bullying, to interactions that would leave young Jonas shaken to his core. Mitch’s friends would corner him, herd him into a secluded and deserted hallway, isolate him so Mitch could come up and crowd him back against the wall of lockers and spew hatred and images of violence into Jonas’ ear. Even after all these years he can still remember how Mitch’s breath felt against his neck, hot and moist, too close, too dangerous. 

And then, at the beginning of their freshmen year, after a whole summer of dreading the return to school and the continuation of his daily torment at the hands of Mitch Mueller, Mitch just… Vanished. Never showed up for classes, not even once, and everyone who Jonas spoke to said he’d left the trailer park that he’d lived in as well. Mitch’s friends, his cohorts, the assistants to his mayhem, drifted around aimlessly without their leader, seemingly just as blindsided by his disappearance as everyone else was, and most everyone--Jonas included-- assumed that the good-for-nothing troublemaker had finally run off. A good thing, too, Dean had commented once at dinner, after asking whether Jonas had finally manned up and confronted his bully. The boy was nothing but trouble, trash just like his mother, Dean had said, and their absence was like the removal of a stain on the otherwise pristine town of Sellwood.

For Jonas, Mitch’s absence meant  _ relief _ . It meant no longer having to look over his shoulder whenever he stepped out of the safety of a classroom; it meant going through his days unmolested and torment-free; it meant he could breath easily and let his guard down. 

But if Mitch is back,  _ really _ back, then Jonas’ senior year--the year he has all planned out, the year that’s supposed to go so smoothly and peacefully for him, the year that's supposed to lead him to Berkeley--is about to become a living hell.

The schoolyard is bustling with activity when Jonas, Sidney, Madison, and Lewis arrive. A steady stream of students are spilling out from the last few schoolbuses making their drop-offs at the curb. All around them friends are reuniting, talking and laughing with each other in loud, boisterous tones; teachers mill about, trying in vain to create order out of chaos and begins the process of herding the kids into the building, but they're largely ignored. It's only the sound of the first morning bell ringing out loud and clear through the morning air that finally gets the students’ attention. The crowd starts to file into the building, Jonas and his friends swept up in their numbers, and the school year officially begins. 

\--

The morning goes by rather quickly, all things considered. Jonas and Sidney find their home room assignment without any trouble and check out their new lockers (Jonas’ is on the first floor, close to the band room; he considers that a good omen). Math is his first class, with Lewis, and the two boys sit side by side as their teacher, Ms. Thibault, hands out the syllabi and their course books. Looking over the material, Jonas is glad he made the decision to skip out on calculus; Sidney is taking it and he's already seen the fear of God in her eyes when she's talked about it. No, pre-calc is just fine for his needs. 

History follows, then English, and by the end of that third class Jonas is feeling very optimistic about the upcoming school year, all thoughts of Mitch Mueller and his troubles of the past pushed to the far recesses of his mind. He's walking with Madison to his last period before lunch, Home Economics, the two of them ducking and weaving through the crowd of students all hurrying to their own classes, when a commotion breaks out from behind them.

Someone is running down the hallway, knocking books out of people’s hands and sending papers flying. Jonas and Madison turn in unison at the angry ‘Hey!’s and ‘Watch it!’s that erupt from their classmates, pressing themselves flat against the wall of lockers behind them as a shape goes zipping past them, breathing hard and sprinting as fast as they can.

Jonas looks at Madison with his brows knit in confusion. “Was that Malcom Johnson?”

Madison opens her mouth to respond, but before she can get a word out the sound of thundering feet and loud, raucous laughter fills the hallway, emanating from the same direction Malcom had just run from. The students who’d moved back into the center of the hall are pushed aside once again as four figures come barreling down the aisle, in hot pursuit of the small, bespectacled, asthmatic figure who’d just ran by. 

They’re dressed in dirty jeans, ripped shirts, the scent of cigarettes lingering around their group like a perfume, their hair slicked back or wildly unkempt, a far cry from the modest dress and put-together appearance of the rest of the student-body. They’re loud, whooping and hooting, not noticing--or, more likely, not  _ caring _ \--who or what they bump into as they race down the hall and round the corner out of sight.

Life resumes as normal once the four figures are gone, with a lot of huffing and muttering floating out of the general populace. Madison smooths out a wrinkle in her skirt and clicks her tongue. “Tsk. What ruffians. Where’s a teacher when you need one? Honestly, some of these people are like animals in a zoo. Don’t you think so, Jonas?”

Jonas doesn’t respond, though. He’s still pressed against the lockers, his eyes wide and his face unnaturally pale. Madison frowns, concern creasing her brow. “Are you alright? You look ill. Do you need to go to the nurse’s office?”

Jonas mumbles something, quiet and incoherent. Madison rolls her eyes. “Really, Joey, you have to speak up. I can’t hear you when you whisper like that.”

Jonas swallows hard, blinking his eyes and looking at Madison with shock. “Did… Did you see him?”

“See who? What are you talking about?”

Jonas looks down the hallway, down where the group of unruly students had disappeared, his hands shaking slightly as he tugs at his the collar of his buttoned shirt where he’s started to sweat. “It’s him, Mads. Lewis’ cousin was right.”

“Right about what? Who was that?”

  
“Mitch Mueller. He’s back.”


	2. September, Part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After years apart, Mitch finally corners Jonas again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> what???? is????? plot??? the world may never know
> 
> thank you to thebermuda for being my beta and my ROCK. MY SWEET SOLID ROCK.
> 
> Long Exposure and all its content belongs to smokeplanet.

Malcom Johnson has always been easy prey.

Scrawny, nerdy, runny-eyed little Malcom, who needs a puff from his inhaler when he so much as jogs up the stairs, who used to play with bugs at recess instead of the other kids, who used to wet his pants every time Mitch and his cohorts would corner him. Seems he’s gotten his bladder under control in the years that Mitch was gone, but the nerd sure as hell still snivels like he did when they were in elementary school. Hardly a challenge for Mitch, Javier, Scratch, and Cliff, but after so long apart it’s a nice way to ease back into their favorite pastime, a good way to reestablish their place in the hierarchy of their old stomping grounds. 

Mitch brushes his hands together as he and his friends exit the boy’s bathroom, all of them wearing shit-eating grins and snickering loudly to themselves. They take up their posts against the nearby wall, leaning against it nonchalantly with their eyes trained on the bathroom door; around them the other students slowly begin to realize that something’s going down, and many of them pause in their tracks to watch whatever spectacle is about to unfold.

It only takes a few moments for Malcom to emerge. He’s soaked, water dripping from his red hair down onto the gingham button-down shirt and suspenders he’d worn to school that day. His cheeks are burning a bright fiery crimson as he attempts to hold his head high and make his way past his classmates, all of whom are laughing uproariously at the sight. With each step he takes, his shoes squeak wetly, and there’s toilet paper trailing from the back of his trousers and dragging on the floor behind him like a tail. 

“Oy, Malcom! The toilets are for pissin’ in, not bathin’!” Mitch calls out, and beside him Cliff actually starts snorting with laughter. Malcolm simply keeps his gaze straight ahead as he gathers his shattered dignity around his small, soggy frame and continues the trek to his next class. The bell rings and Mitch’s audience disperses, ready to pass the story of Malcolm Johnson’s swirly-bath to their friends who were unfortunate enough to have missed the show. 

“We sure got him, didn’t we, Mitch?” Cliff asks, still wheezing as he laughs. He reaches a dirty hand out to punch playfully at Mitch’s shoulder, but the taller boy sneers at the contact and looks down at the sleeve of his faded black leather jacket with disgust.

“Jesus, Cliff, y’got your nasty slobber on my jacket. Why don’t you fuckin’ say it and not spray it, huh?” He pats at the pocket of his jacket before reaching in and pulling out a crumpled box of cheap cigarettes, bringing it up to his face and catching the end of one between his lips. “Light,” he mumbles around the fag, not even bothering to look up as Javier fishes a Zippo from his own pocket and sparks a flame, holding it up to the end of Mitch’s cigarette.

He takes a deep drag and the tip flares up with a molten red haze. He holds the acrid smoke in his lungs for a long moment before finally exhaling, blowing the cloud directly into Cliff’s face. “Malcolm’s too fuckin’ easy. He practically dunked his own stupid head in the shitter.“

Javier rolls his eyes. “It’s your first day back, Mitch. Relax. Just cause you were shankin’ kids out in Santa Rosa doesn’t mean we’re gonna get to stabbing someone today.”

Mitch huffs, looking thoroughly annoyed, and drags a large hand through his greased back hair. “Yeah, whatever, Bozo. What’s with the stupid makeup anyways? Y’look like a fuckin’ clown.”

Javier shrugs, unfazed by Mitch’s griping. “I’m supposed to look like a clown. Clowns are scary. So, in turn, this makes  _ me  _ even scarier.”

“Y’re all a bunch of goddamn idiots,” Mitch mumbles, shaking his head. “How in the hell did you survive without me?”

Scratch reaches a hand out quick as lightning and snatches the cigarette from Mitch’s mouth, taking a puff for herself before Mitch angrily grabs it back. “Awwww, Mitchyyyyy, we missed youuuu!” She giggles, smoke pouring out of her nostrils like a dragon. She flings thin arms around Mitch’s middle and squeals when she’s unceremoniously yanked off of him by the collar of her cut-up blouse. 

“I forgot how fuckin’ weird you guys are,” Mitch grumbles, holding Scratch at arm’s distance and eyeing her warily. 

Behind them a classroom door opens and a portly teacher steps out, his face reddening under his thick white moustache.

“Mr. Mueller and  _ company _ ! There is no smoking allowed in this building! How  _ dare  _ you flaunt your flagrant disdain for the rules and practices of this fine learning establishment! I should--”

Mitch cuts the older man off with a dismissive wave of his hand, turning on his heel and calling back over his shoulder, “Missed you too, Mr. Whitmore. Don’t worry, my  _ associates  _ and I will be gettin’ out of here post-haste and all that shit. Good luck with your shitty toupee and your divorce, Daddy-O.”

Javier, Scratch, and Cliff all laugh loudly as they saunter away, leaving the aged teacher sputtering and fuming in the empty hall.

\----

The side of the school perpendicular to the front entrance is the best spot to hang out at at the end of the day. It’s always in the shade at that time of the afternoon, and there’s a few old picnic tables set up there where students can sit and relax. It also just so happens to afford the best view of the front entrance as the final bell rings and kids start to spill out of the school, the academic day finally done. Some students make beelines directly for the waiting buses, but most walk home; Sellwood High is within walking distance for much of the town.

As everyone knows, a target on foot is vulnerable.

At first Mitch is the only one who spots him. Cliff is busy pounding back a beer he’d nicked from his dad earlier that morning while Javier is trying his best to stop Scratch from smoking a stepped-on cigarette butt she’d found in the dirt. Mitch looks back at his friends, hesitating on whether or not he should bring them with him, and then decides against it, slinking away unnoticed and toward the lone figure who’d just walked into view: Jonas Wagner.

“Well well well,” Mitch drawls, the words dripping from his tongue with a bitter sweetness as he strolls up behind Jonas, his large hands shoved deep into the pockets of his ripped jeans. He can see the exact moment Jonas realizes he’s made a mistake, coming outside all by himself; his shoulders tense up, his spine straightens, his arms grow stiff and rigid. One of the books he’s carrying topples to the ground and he doesn’t bend down to pick it up, just stands stock still like Mitch won’t see him if he doesn’t move. It makes him laugh, loud and braying. “If it isn’t my favorite little nerd. Y’miss me, Spots?”

Jonas turns slowly to face Mitch, his eyes wide and his cheeks already turning a dusky red. The boy’s palpable fear makes Mitch’s blood hum in his veins, makes his heart hammer against his chest; Jonas has always been so  _ receptive _ to his taunts, ever since they were kids, and Mitch has missed seeing such a blatant, visceral reaction to his presence. When Jonas is aware of him, paying attention to him, Mitch  _ thrives _ . 

“O--Oh… H--hey, Mitch. Um, I…. I didn’t know you were back.” Mitch watches the way Jonas’ gaze darts from side to side, looking for a chance to escape, a way out, but there’s no one there to save him; the schoolyard has emptied out, save for Mitch’s friends off in the distance. Jonas is stuck there with him, trapped in his shadow as Mitch looms over his smaller frame and fills in the empty space around them with his presence.

“Didn’t you?” Mitch leans over slightly, closing some of the distance between their faces. This close he can see the individual flecks of color that make up Jonas’ eyes, the verdant moss and soft cedarwood and golden amber specks. “I thought everyone had heard ‘bout Malcolm’s lil’ bath by now. I was there; saw the whole thing. Real sad that the kid can’t even shower at home, huh? I guess freaks are just freaks.” 

Jonas lets out a nervous laugh, shifting from one foot to the other. Mitch can feel the ghost of Jonas’ breath against the line of his neck; it almost sends a shiver down his spine, that warm air. His smile grows wider. “Yeah, um… I actually did hear about that. I don’t really know Malcolm all that well though, so…”

Without any warning Mitch drops down into a crouch. Jonas flinches back like he’s been burned, gasping out loud. Mitch erupts into raucous laughter and straightens back up, Jonas’ fallen book in his hand. “Shit, Spots, y’re still a jumpy lil’ fucker, huh? And here I was jus’ tryna be a nice guy.” He holds the book out and Jonas eyes him warily, his chest rising and falling heavily. 

There’s a pause before Jonas reaches a hand out toward the offered book. Mitch yanks it away at the last moment, and a fissure of annoyance cracks through Jonas’ fear. The taller boy raises an eyebrow at that, the huff that leaves Jonas, but the younger boy catches himself quickly and drops his gaze, timid once again. “Can I have my book back, please?” he mumbles, and Mitch shrugs his shoulders.

“Guess so.” This time he lets Jonas actually take the book from his hand, grinning down at his victim with a wide, toothy smile. “Where ya goin’ now, Spots? Don’t you have band practice or some shit? Some nerd thing you gotta do?”

Jonas bristles, a frown tugging at his lips, and glares up at Mitch. “Actually, for your information, band practice doesn’t start until next week. I’m going to work now. Don’t  _ you _ have something you could be doing? Maybe stabbing someone?”

Jonas blanches as soon as the words leave his mouth, the blush receding from his cheeks like the tide and leaving a pallid grey sort of color behind. “I--I didn’t mean that. I just meant--”

“No, go on,” Mitch interjects, his voice low and dangerous. His smile is gone, his warped brand playfulness replaced by a cold anger. “Y’think I just go around stabbin’ people? Huh? Maybe I do. Maybe I stabbed someone just last night, Joey. Stuck my blade in their stomach and let their guts fall out.” 

He’s leaning down even closer now, his nose almost brushing against Jonas’. He’s fairly sure Jonas has stopped breathing, but Mitch can’t rein it in: he’s angry,  _ furious _ , at the world and the things he’s had to do, the things the people of this town think he’s done, the way Jonas looks petrified right now; he  _ hates _ that there’s an ache in his chest at the very real terror he sees in Joey’s eyes. But he can’t stop himself. It spills out of him like a toxic chemical. “Maybe I should show ya sometime. Y’want that? Wanna see me slice a man’s throat open? Would that make ya happy?”

Jonas opens his mouth to respond but nothing comes out, no words or even sounds. Mitch is choking on the venom he wants to continue spitting but he’s cut off by a loud voice calling out from the school’s front doors. “Jonas!’”

The two boys look over at the same time to see Sidney, Jonas’ clone, hurrying towards them, her face twisted up in a fierce scowl. She presses herself between Mitch and Jonas and forces Mitch back a few steps, glaring up at him. “Were you bothering him, you greaser scum?”

Mitch sneers at Sidney, but the space between him and Jonas helps clear his head slightly. “Who, me? Naw. Spots and I were just havin’ a chat, for old times sake. Ain’t that right, Joey?”

Jonas doesn't respond, just tugs at Sidney’s sleeve and clears his throat. “C’mon, Sidney, let’s just go.” He’s looking at the ground, down at his shoes, but Mitch wants nothing more than to have Jonas’ eyes on him again.    
  
Sidney stays for a second longer, glaring at Mitch, but finally she nods. “Let’s go. It’s almost three.” They turn and walk towards the street. Mitch just stands there watching them go. Before they turn the corner and disappear from view Sidney looks back and yells, “You better not try and mess with Joey again, you jerk!” 

Mitch hardly notices when Cliff, Scratch, and Javier come up beside him, his hands clenching and unclenching at his sides without thought. “Was that that Jonas kid?” Javier asks, staring at the spot where Jonas and Sidney had just been. 

Cliff sucks in a rumbling breath and spits out a glob of mucus onto the ground. “Aw, shit, we missed the lil’ fag? I wanted’ta--”

Mitch’s punch lands square on Cliff’s chest, sending him falling down onto his ass with a loud yelp. Javier and Scratch’s mouths are hanging open but they don’t say anything as Mitch drops down and grabs two handfuls of Cliff’s shirt, yanking him up close. “I don’t give one fuckin’  _ shit _ what you wanted, y’filthy hick. So howsa’bout you shut your mouth for one damn moment?”

He pushes Cliff away from him as he stands, back down onto the gravel ground, tugging the collar of his leather jacket up before pulling out a cigarette. “I’ll see you fucks tomorrow,” he says and turns away abruptly, stalking off. 

Cliff, Javier, and Scratch watch him leave, Cliff rubbing at his chest. “The fuck is his problem?” he grumbles, accepting Javier’s hand when it’s offered.

  
Javier grunts as he helps Cliff to his feet and then crosses his arms over his chest. “Dunno. All I do know is, he saw some shit out in Santa Rosa. So maybe you should cut the gas, huh? And hey… don’t go after that freckled kid. He’s Mitch’s.”


End file.
